“Did you find out the big fellow’s name?” asked Mr Brathwaite.
“Yes. It was Nxabahlana. Do you know him? He looked as if he held the right of succession to the paramount chieftainship of Kafirland.”
“Nxabahlana? Oh, yes, I know him,” replied the old man. “He’s a kind of sub-chief, and a relation of Sandili’s. One of the greatest blackguards that ever stepped. Good thing you turned them out; they were up to no good, that much is certain.”
“A chief!” exclaimed Lilian, raising her eyes, “I should like to see a real Kafir chief.”
“Would you?” said Claverton. “I wish I had known that; you should have seen him. I’d have brought him here.”
The others laughed, thinking he was joking, but Lilian knew that he meant it, every word.
“Ah, but,” she said in a repentant tone, “you couldn’t have captured him, there were three of them; at least I mean—it would not have been worth the risk.”
Claverton laughed quietly.
“No such severe measures would have been necessary. If I had promised his chieftainship a glass of grog and an old hat, he would have come trundling up here with an alacrity that would surprise you.”
“Really? That quite takes away from the poetry of the idea. I thought these savage chiefs were very proud.”